Ibb   336 


*t', 


B  E  R  K  E  L  E  y 
LIBRARY 


LONDON  RHYME& 


LONDON     RHYMES 


FREDERICK  LOCKER 


NEW   YORK 

WHITE,    STOKES,    &   ALLEN 
1 386 


PUBLISHERS'    NOTE. 

Messrs.  White,  Stokes,  &  Allen  take  pleasure  in 
stating  that  they  are  Mr.  Locker's  authorized  pub- 
lishers in  the  United  States.  This  edition  is  the 
A  UTHO&S  EDITION,  selected  and  revised  by  him. 


1 


CONTENTS. 

FAGB 

Advice  to  a  Poet i 

My  Mistress's  Boots $ 

The  Reason  Why 8 

Tempora  Mutantur ! 9 

A  Winter  Fantasy 12 

The  Housemaid 13 

To  my  old  friend  Postumus  .»•*.....    .16 

Heine  to  his  Mistress   .    .    .    * 18 

On  "  A  Portrait  of  a  Lady  "... .  19 

"Her  quiet  resting-place  is  far  away" 22 

The  Bear  Pit 24 

Unreflecting  Childhood • 26 

The  old  Stonemason 28 

The  Music  Palace 30 

Mrs.  Smith 33 

To  Lina  Oswald 36 

The  old  Government  Clerk 38 

Old  Letters .  42 

Inchbae 45 

The  Jester's  Plea 47 

The  Rose  and  the  Ring    ...• 50 

Nuptial  Verses 52 

An  Old  Buffer 55 

Many  years  after •    •  57 


328 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

Geraldine  Green : — 

The  Serenade 60 

My  life  is  a  —  .......•*..  61 

From  the  Cradle 63 

The  Twins 64 

The  Old  Cradle 65 

Love,  Time,  and  Death 68 

An  Epitaph 69 

Baby  Mine 70 

Du  Rys  de  Madame  D'Allebret 71 

The  Lady  I  Love 72 

Our  Photographs 74 

My  First-born 76 

Mr.  Placid's  Flirtation 78 

St.  George's,  Hanover  Square 83 

Ma  Future 84 

Vanity  Fair 86 

My  Neighbour's  Wife 88 

Arcady 90 

Mabel's  Muff 91 

A  Kind  Providence       93 

NOTES 97 


ADVICE  TO  A  FOET. 

Now  if  you'll  only  take,  perchance, 
But  half  tJie  pains  to  learn,  that  iw 

Still  take  to  hide  our  ignorance— 
How  very  clever  you  -will  be  I 

Dear  Poet,  do  not  rhyme  at  all ! 

But  if  you  must,  don't  tell  your  neighbours* 
Or  five  in  six,  who  cannot  scrawl, 

Will  dub  you  "donkey"  for  your  labours. 
This  epithet  may  seem  unjust 

To  you,  or  any  Verse-begetter  I—- 
Must we  admit,  I  fear  we  must, 

That  nine  in  ten  deserve  no  better? 

Then  let  them  bray  with  leathern  lungs, 
And  match  you  with  the  beast  that  grazes  \ 

Or  wag  their  heads,  and  hold  their  tongues, 
Or  damn  you  with  the  faintest  praises. 


2  LONDON  RHYMES. 

Be  patient,  for  be  sure  you  won't 
Win  vogue  without  extreme  vexation : 

And  hope  for  sympathy, — but  don't 
Expect  it  from  a  near  relation. 

When  strangers  first  approved  my  books, 

My  kindred  marvell'd  what  the  praise  meant ; 
They  now  wear  more  respectful  looks, 

But  can't  get  over  their  amazement. 
Indeed,  they've  power  to  wound  beyond 

That  wielded  by  the  fiercest  hater, 
For  all  the  time  they  are  so  fond — 

Which  makes  the  aggravation  greater. 


Most  warblers  only  half  express 

The  threadbare  thoughts  they  feebly  utter : 
Now  if  they  tried  for  something  less 

They  might  not  sink,  and  gasp,  and  flutter. 
Fly  low  at  first, — then  mount  and  win 

The  niche  for  which  the  town's  contesting ; 
And  never  mind  your  kith  and  kin, — 

But  never  give  them  cause  for  jesting. 


LONDON  RHYMES. 

Hold  Pegasus  in  hand,  control 

A  taste  for  ornament  ensnaring ; 
Simplicity  is  yet  the  soul 

Of  all  that  Time  deems  worth  the  sparing. 
Long  lays  are  not  a  lively  sport, 

So  clip  your  own  to  half  a  quarter ; 
If  readers  now  don't  think  them  short, 

Posterity  will  cut  them  shorter. 

*  *  *  # 

I  look  on  bards  who  whine  for  praise 

With  feelings  of  profoundest  pity : 
They  hunger  for  the  Poet's  bays, 

And  swear  one's  waspish  when  one's  witty. 
The  critic's  lot  is  passing  hard, — 

Between  ourselves,  I  think  reviewers, 
When  call'd  to  truss  a  crowing  bard, 

Should  not  be  sparing  of  the  skewers. 

*  *  *  * 

We  all,  the  foolish  and  the  wise, 
Regard  our  verse  with  fascination, 

Through  asinine- paternal  eyes, 
And  hues  of  Fancy's  own  creation ; 


[  LONDON  RHYMES. 

Prythee,  then,  check  that  passing  sneer 

At  any  self-deluded  rhymer 
Who  thinks  his  beer  (the  smallest  beer !) 

Has  all  the  gust  of  alt  Hochheimer* 

*  *  *  * 

Oh,  for  the  Poet- Voice  that  swells 

To  lofty  truths,  or  noble  curses — 
I  only  wear  the  cap  and  bells, 

And  yet  some  Tears  are  in  my  verses. 
I  softly  trill  my  sparrow  reed, 

Pleased  if  but  one  should  like  the  twitter ; 
Humbly  I  lay  it  down  to  heed 

A  music  or  a  minstrel  litter. 


LONDON  RHYMES. 


MY  MISTRESS'S  BOOTS. 

She  has  dancing  eyes  and  ruby  lips, 
Delightful  boots— and  away  she  skips, 

They  nearly  strike  me  dumb,— 
I  tremble  when  they  come 

Pit-a-pat : 

This  palpitation  means 
These  Boots  are  Geraldine's — 

Think  of  that  I 

O,  where  did  hunter  win 
So  delicate  a  skin 

For  her  feet  ? 
You  lucky  little  kid, 
You  perish'd,  so  you  did, 

For  my  Sweet. 

The  faery  stitching  gleams 
On  the  sides,  and  in  the  seams, 
And  reveals 


LONDON  RHYMES. 

That  the  Pixies  were  the  wags 
Who  tipt  these  funny  tags, 
And  these  heels. 

What  soles  to  charm  an  elf ! — 
Had  Crusoe,  sick  of  self, 

Chanced  to  view 
One  printed  near  the  tide, 
O,  how  hard  he  would  have  tried 

For  the  two  ! 

For  Gerry's  debonair, 
And  innocent  and  fair 

As  a  rose ; 

She's  an  Angel  in  a  frock, 
She's  an  Angel  with  a  clock 

To  her  hose ! 

The  simpletons  who  squeeze 
Their  pretty  toes  to  please 

Mandarins, 

Would  positively  flinch 
From  venturing  to  pinch 

Geraldine's. 


LONDON  RHYMES. 

Cinderella's  lefts  and  rights 
To  Geraldine's  were  fright* : 

And  I  trow 

The  Damsel,  deftly  shod, 
Has  dutifully  trod 

Until  now. 

Come,  Gerry,  since  it  suits 
Such  a  pretty  Puss  (in  Boots) 

These  to  don, 

Set  your  dainty  hand  awhile 
On  my  shoulder,  Dear,  and  I'D 

Put  them  on. 

ALBURY  :  June  29,  1864. 


LONDON  RHYMES. 


THE  REASON  WHY. 

Ask  why  I  love  these  roses  fair, 
And  whence  they  come,  and  whose  they  were ; 
They  come  from  her,  and  not  alone, — 
They  bring  her  sweetness  with  their  own. 

Or  ask  me  why  I  love  her  so ; 
I  know  not:  this  is  all  I  know, 
These  roses  bud  and  bloom,  and  twine 
As  she  round  this  fond  heart  of  mine. 

And  this  is  why  I  love  these  flowers, 

Once  they  were  hers,  they're  mine — they're  ours ! 

I  love  her,  and  they  soon  will  die, 

And  now  you  know  the  Reason  Why. 


LONDON  RHYMES. 


TEMPORA  MUTANTUR! 

Yes,  here,  once  more  a  traveller, 

I  find  the  Angel  Inn, 
Where  landlord,  maids,  and  serving-men 

Receive  me  with  a  grin : 
Surely  they  can't  remember  Me, 

My  hair  is  grey  and  scanter ; 
I'm  changed,  so  changed  since  I  was  here- 

0  ttmpora  mutanturl 

The  Angel's  not  much  alter'd  since 

The  happy  month  of  June, 
That  brought  me  here  with  Pamela 

To  spend  our  honeymoon : 
Ah  me,  I  even  recollect 

The  shape  of  this  decanter  I 
We've  since  been  both  much  put  about— 

O  tempora  mutanturl 


10  LONDON  RHYMES. 

Ay,  there's  the  clock,  and  looking-glass 

Reflecting  me  again ; 
She  vow'd  her  Love  was  very  fair, 

I  see  I'm  very  plain  : 
And  there's  that  daub  of  Prince  Leeboo; 

Twas  Pamela's  fond  banter 
To  fancy  it  resembled  me — 

O  tempora  mutanturl 

The  curtains  have  been  dyed,  but  there, 

Unbroken,  is  the  same — 
The  very  same — crack'd  pane  of  glass 

On  which  I  scratch'd  her  name. 
Yes,  there's  her  tiny  flourish  still ; 

It  used  to  so  enchant  her 
To  link  two  happy  names  in  one — 

O  tempora  mutanturl 

»  »  *  » 

The  pilgrim  sees  an  empty  chair 

Where  Pamela  once  sal ; 
It  may  be  she  had  found  her  grave, 

ft  might  be  worse  than  that : 


LONDON  RHYMES.  u 

The  fairest  fade,  the  best  of  men 
Have  met  with  a  supplanter  ;— 

/  wish  that  I  could  like  this  cry 
Of  tempera  mutantur. 


12  LONDON  RHYMES. 


A  WINTER  FANTASY. 

Your  veil  is  thick,  and  none  would  know 
The  pretty  face  it  quite  obscures ; 

But  if  you  foot  it  through  the  snow, 
Distrust  those  little  Boots  of  yours. 

The  tell-tale  snow,  a  sparkling  mould, 

Says  where  they  go  and  whence  they  came, 

Lightly  they  touch  its  carpet  cold, 
And  where  they  touch  they  sign  your  name. 

She  pass'd  beneath  yon  branches  bare : 
How  fair  her  face,  and  how  content ! 

I  only  know  her  face  was  fair, — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

Pipe,  robins,  pipe  ;  though  boughs  be  bleak 

Ye  are  her  winter  choristers  ; 
Whose  cheek  will  press  that  rose-cold  cheek  ? 

What  lips  those  fresh  young  lips  of  hers? 


LONDON  RHYMES.  13 


THE  HOUSEMAID. 

The  j>oor  can  love  through  toil  an 
A  Ithough  their  homely  speech  is  fain 

To  halt  in  fetters  l 
They  feel  as  much)  and  do  far  more 
Than  some  of  those  they  bow  before^ 

Miscaltd  their  betters. 

Wistful  she  stands — and  yet,  resigned, 
She  watches  by  the  window -blind : 

Poor  Girl.     No  doubt 
The  passers-by  despise  thy  lot : 
Thou  canst  not  stir,  because  'tis  not 

Thy  Sunday  out. 

To  play  a  game  of  hide  and  seek 
With  dust  and  cobweb  all  the  week 

Small  pleasure  yields : 
Oh  dear,  how  nice  it  were  to  drop 
One's  pen  and  ink — one's  pail  and  mop  ; 

And  scour  the  fields. 


14  LONDON  RHYMES. 

Poor  Bodies  few  such  pleasures  know  ; 
Seldom  they  come.    How  soon  they  go  ! 

But  Souls  can  roam  ; 
For,  lapt  in  visions  airy-sweet, 
She  sees  in  this  unlovely  street 

Her  far-off  home. 

The  street  is  now  no  street !    She  pranks 
A  purling  brook  with  thy  my  banks. 

In  Fancy's  realm 
Yon  post  supports  no  lamp,  aloof 
It  spreads  above  her  parents'  roof, — 

A  gracious  elm. 

A  father's  aid,  a  mother's  care, 
And  life  for  her  was  happy  there  : 

But  here,  in  thrall 

She  waits,  and  dreams,  and  fondly  dreams, 
And  fondly  smiles  on  One  who  seems 
More  dear  than  all. 

Her  dwelling-place  I  can't  disclose  1 
Suppose  her  fair,  her  name  suppose 
Is  Car,  or  Kitty; 


LONDON  RHYMES.  15 

She  may  be  Jan*— she  might  be  plain— 
For  must  the  Subject  of  my  strain 
Be  always  pretty  ? 

*  *  * 

Oft  on  a  cloudless  afternoon 
Of  budding  May  and  leafy  June, 

Fit  Sunday  weather, 
I  pass  thy  window  by  design, 
And  wish  thy  Sunday  out  and  mine 
Might  fall  together. 

For  sweet  it  were  thy  lot  to  dower 
With  one  brief  joy:  a  white-robed  flowet 

That  prude  or  preacher 
Hardly  could  deem  it  were  unmeet 
To  lay  on  thy  poor  path,  thou  sweet, 
Forlorn  young  Creature. 

»  *  * 

But  if  her  thought  on  wooing  run 
And  if  her  Sunday-Swain  is  one 

Who's  fond  of  strolling, 
She'd  like  my  nonsense  less  than  his, 
And  so  it's  better  as  it  is—- 
And that's  consoling. 
1864. 


16  LONDON  RHYMES. 


TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND  POSTUMUS. 
(J.G.) 

Andt  like yon*clocke,  when  twelve  shatte  s»-&>9 

To  call  our  soules  away, 
Together  may  our  hands  befoundt 

An  earnest  that  we  Prate. 

My  Friend,  our  few  remaining  years 

Are  hasting  to  an  end, 
They  glide  away,  and  lines  are  here 

That  time  can  never  mend  ; 
Thy  blameless  life  avails  thee  not,— 

Alas,  my  dear  old  Friend  ! 

Death  lifts  a  burthen  from  the  poor, 

And  brings  the  weary  rest ; 
But  oft  from  earth's  green  orchard  trees 

The  canker  takes  our  best — 
The  Well-beloved  !  she  bloom'd,  and  now 

The  turf  is  on  her  breast. 


LONDON  RHYMES. 

O  pleasant  Earth  !    This  peaceful  home  ! 

The  darling  at  my  knee  ! 
My  own  dear  wife  !  Thyself,  old  Friend  I 

And  must  it  come  to  me, 
That  any  face  shall  fill  my  place 

Unknown  to  them  and  thee  ? 

Ay,  vainly  are  we  fenced  about 

From  peril,  day  and  night ; 
Those  awful  rapids  must  be  shot, 

Altho'  our  skiff  be  slight ; 
0,  pray  that  then  we  may  descry 

Some  cheering  beacon-light 


18  LONDON  RHYMES. 


HEINE  TO  HIS  MISTRESS 

What  do  the  violets  ail, 

So  wan,  so  shy  ? 
Why  are  the  roses  pale  ? 

Oh  why?   Oh  why? 

The  lark  sad  music  makes 

To  sullen  skies  ; 
From  yonder  flowery  brakes 

Dead  odours  rise. 

Why  is  the  sun's  new  birth 
A  dawn  of  gloom  ? 

Oh  why  is  this  fair  earth 
My  joyless  tomb  ? 

I  wait  apart  and  sigh, 

I  call  to  thee  ; 
Why,  Heart's-beloved,  why 

Didst  thou  leave  me  ? 
1876. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  19 


ON   "A  PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY." 

BY  THE  PAINTER. 

I  gathered  it  -wet  for  my  own.  sweet  Pet 
As  we  whisper  d  and  walJtd  apart : 

She  gave  me  that  rose,  it  is  fragrant  yet, — 
And  oh)  it  is  near  my  heart. 

She  is  good,  for  she  must  have  a  guileless  mind 

With  that  noble,  trusting  air  ; 
A  rose  with  a  passionate  heart  is  twined 

In  her  crown  of  golden  hair. 
Some  envy  the  cross  that  caressingly  dips 

In  her  bosom,  and  some  had  died 
For  the  promise  of  bliss  on  her  red,  red  lips, 

And  her  thousand  charms  beside. 

She  is  lovely  and  good ;  she  has  peerless  eyes ; 

A  haunting  shape.     She  stands 
In  a  blossoming  croft,  under  kindling  skies, — 

The  weirdest  of  faery  lands ; 


20  LONDON  RHYMES. 

There  are  sapphire  hills  by  the  far-off  seas, 

Grave  laurels,  and  tender  limes  ; 
They  tremble  and  glow  in  the  morning  breeze/  - 

My  Beauty  is  up  betimes. 

A  bevy  of  idlers  press  around, 

To  wonder,  and  wish,  and  loll ; 
"  Now  who  is  the  painter,  and  where  has  he  found 

The  Woman  we  all  extol, 
With  her  fresh  young  mouth,  and  her  candid  brow, 

And  a  bloom  as  of  bygone  days?" — 
\*ow  natural  sounds  their  worship,  how 

Impertinent  seems  their  praise  ! 

i  stand  aloof;  I  can  well  afford 

To  pardon  the  babble  and  crush 
As  they  praise  a  work  (do  I  need  reward  ?) 

That  has  grown  beneath  my  brush : 
Aloof — and  in  fancy  again  I  hear 

The  music  clash  in  the  hall, 
When  they  crown 'd  her  Queen  of  their  dance  and 
cheer, 

— She  is  mine,  and  Queen  of  all  I 


LONDON  RHYMES.  21 

Yes,  my  thoughts  are  away  to  that  happy  day, 

A  few  short  months  agone, 
When  we  left  the  games,  and  the  dance,  to  stray 

Through  the  dewy  flowers,  alone. 
My  feet  are  again  among  flowers  divine, 

Away  from  the  noise  and  glare, 
When  I  kiss'd  her  mouth,  and  her  lips  press'd 
mine, 

And  I  fasten'd  that  rose  in  her  hair. 
1868. 


22  LONDON  RHYMES. 


At  Susan* s  name  the  fancy  plays 
With  chimitig  thoughts  of  early  days. 

And  hearts  unwrung: 
When  all  too  fair  our  future  smiled^ 
When  she  was  Mirth's  adopted  child, 

A  nd  I  was  young. 

*  *  *  * 

And  summer  smiles,  but  summer  spells 
Can  never  charm  where  sorrow  dwells — 

No  maiden  fair^ 

Or  sad,  or  gay,  the  passer  sees ; — 
And  still  the  much-loved  elder-tree* 

Throw  shadows  there. 

Her  quiet  resting-place  is  far  away ; 

None  dwelling  there  can  tell  you  her  sad  story. 
The  stones  are  mute:    The  stones  could  only  sayf 

"A  humble  Spirit  pass V away  to  glory." 


She  loved  the  murmur  of  this  mighty  town ; 

The  lark  rejoiced  her  from  its  lattice  prison; 
And  now  her  grave  is  green — her  bird  has  flown,— 

Some  dust  is  waiting — a  glad  Soul  has  risen. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  23 

No  city  smoke  to  stain  the  heather  bells ; 

Sigh,  gentle  winds,  around  my  lone  Love  sleep- 
ing; 

She  bore  her  burthen  here,  but  now'she  dwells 
"Where  scorner  cannot  come,  and  none  are 
weeping. 

My  name  was  falter'd  with  her  parting  breath ; 

These  arms  were  round  my  Darling  at  the  latest ; 
All  scenes  of  death  are  woe,  but  painful  death 

In  those  we  dearly  love  is  woe  the  greatest. 

I  could  not  die ;  HE  will'd  it  otherwise : 
My  lot  is  here,  and  sorrow,  wearing  older, 

Weighs  down  the  heart,  but  does  not  fill  the  eyes,— 
Even  my  friends  may  think  that  I  am  colder. 

But  when  at  times  I  steal  away  from  these, 
To  find  her  Grave,  and  pray  to  be  forgiven, 

And  when  I  watch  beside  her  on  my  knees, 
I  think  I  am  a  little  nearer  Heaven. 
x86x. 


LONDON  RHYMES. 


THE  BEAR  PIT. 

IN  THE  ZOOLOGICAL  GARDENS. 

It  seems  that  poor  Bruin  has  never  had  peace 
'Twixt  bald  men  in  Bethel \  and  wise  men  in  grea& 

OLD  ADAGK. 

We  liked  the  Bear's  serio-comical  face, 
As  he  loll'd  with  a  lazy,  a  lumbering  grace  ; 
Said  Slyboots  to  me  (as  if  she  had  got  none), 
"Papa,  let's  give  Bruin  a  bit  of  your  bun." 

Says  I,   "A  plum  bun  might  please  wistful  old 

Bruin, 

He  can't  eat  the  stone  that  the  cruel  boy  threw  in ; 
Stick  yours  on  the  point  of  mamma's  parasol, 
And  then  he  will  climb  to  the  top  of  the  pole. 

"  Some  Bears  have  got  two  legs,  and  some  have 

got  more, 

Be  good  to  old  Bears  if  they've  no  legs  or  four ; 
Of  duty  to  age  you  should  never  be  careless, — 
My  dear,  I  am  bald,  and  I  soon  may  be  hairless  ! 


LONDON  RHYMES.  15 

"  The  gravest  aversion  exists  among  Bears 
From  rude  forward  persons  who  give  themselves 

airs, 

We  know  how  some  graceless  young  people  were 
x          maul'd 
For  plaguing  a  Prophet,  and  calling  him  bald. 

"  Strange  ursine  devotion  !    Their  dancing-days 

ended, 

Bears  die  to  '  remove '  what,  in  life,  they  defended : 
They  succour'd  the  Prophet,  and,  since  that  affair, 
The  bald  have  a  painful  regard  for  the  bear." 

MY  MORAL  !  Small  people  may  read  it,  and  rim. 
(The  Child  has  my  moral, — the  Bear  has  my  bun.) 


26  LONDON  RHYMES 


UNREFLECTING  CHILDHOOD. 

The  world  would  lose  its  finest  joys 
Without  its  little  girls  and  boys; 
Their  careless  glee ',  and  simple  ruth, 
And  trust,  and  innocence,  and  truth. 
— Ah,  what  would  your  poor  poet  da 
Without  such  little  folk  as  you  ? 

It  is  indeed  a  little  while 

Since  you  were  born,  my  happy  Pet ; 
Your  future  beckons  with  a  smile, 

Your  bygones  don't  exist  as  yet. 
Is  all  the  world  with  beauty  rife  ? 

Are  you  a  little  Bird  that  sings 
Her  simple  gratitude  for  life, 
And  lovely  things  ? 

The  ocean,  and  the  waning  moons, 
And  starry  skies,  and  starry  dells, 

And  vi  inter  sport,  and  golden  Junes, 
Art,  and  divinest  Beauty-spells  : 


LONDON  RHYMES.  z^ 

Festa,  and  song,  and  frolic  wit, 

And  banter,  and  domestic  mirth, — 
They  all  are  ours  !  dear  Child,  is  it 
A  pleasant  earth  ? 

And  poet  friends,  and  poesy, 

And  precious  books,  for  any  mood  : 
And  then — that  best  of  company — 
Those  graver  thoughts  in  solitude 
That  hold  us  fast  and  never  pall  : 

Then  there  is  You,  my  Own,  my  Fair— 
And  I  ...  soon  I  must  leave  it  all, 

— And  much  you  care. 
rtji. 


28  LONDON  RHYMES. 


THE  OLD  STONEMASON, 

A  showery  day  in  early  spring, 

An  Old  Man  and  a  Child 
Are  seated  near  a  scaffolding, 

Where  marble  blocks  are  piled* 

His  clothes  are  stain'd  by  age  and  soil, 

As  hers  by  rain  and  sun  ; 
He  looks  as  if  his  days  of  toil 

Were  very  nearly  done. 

To  eat  his  dinner  he  had  sought 

A  staircase  proud  and  vast, 
And  here  the  duteous  Child  had  brought 

His  scanty  noon  repast. 

A  worn-out  Workman  needing  aid  ; 

A  blooming  Child  of  Light ; 
The  stately  palace  steps  ; — all  made 

A  most  pathetic  sight. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  29 

We  had  sought  shelter  from  the  storm, 

And  saw  this  lowly  Pair, — 
But  none  could  see  a  Shining  Form 

That  watch'd  beside  them  there. 


30  LONDON  RHYMES. 


THE  MUSIC  PALACE. 

Shall  you  go  ?    I  don't  ask  you  to  seek  it  or  skztn  it ; 
/  went  on  an  impulse  :  Vve  been  and  I've  done  it. 

So  this  is  a  Music-hall,  easy  and  free, 
A  temple  for  singing,  and  dancing,  and  spree  ; 
The  band  is  at  Faust,  and  the  benches  are  filling, 
And  all  that  I  have  can  be  had  for  a  shilling. 

The  senses  are  charm'd  by  the  sights  and  the 

sounds ; 

A  spirit  of  affable  gladness  abounds  : 
With  zest  we  applaud,  and  as  madly  recall 
The  singer,  the  cellar-flap-dancer,  and  all. 

What  vision  comes  on  with  a  wreath  and  a  lyre  ? 

A  creature  of  impulse  in  scanty  attire  ; 

She  plays   the  good  sprite  in  a  dream-haunted 

dell, 
She  has  ankles  !  and  eyes  like  a  wistful  gazelle. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  31 

A  clown  sings  a  song,  and  a  droll  cuts  a  caper, 
And  then  she  dissolves  in  a  rose-colour'd  vapour  ; 
Then  an  imp  on  a  rope  is  a  painfully-pleasant 
Sensation  for  all  the  mammas  that  are  present. 

But  who  is  the  Damsel  that  smiles  to  me  there 

With  so  reckless,  indeed,  so  defiant  an  air  ? 

She  is  bright  —  that  she's  pretty  is  more  than  I'll 

say. 
Is  she  happy  ?    At  least  she's  exceedingly  gay. 


It  seems  to  me  now,  as  we  pass  up  the  street, 
Is  Nell  worse  than  I,  or  the  worthies  we  meet  ? 
She  is  reckless,  her  conduct's  exceedingly  sad  — 
A  coin  may  be  light,  but  it  need  not  be  bad. 

Heaven  help  thee,  poor  Child  :  now  a  graceless 

and  gay  Thing, 
You  once  were  your  Mother's,  her  pet  and  her 

plaything  : 
Where  was  your  home  ?    Are  the  stars  that  look 

down 
On  that  home,  the  cold  stars  of  this  pitiless  Town  ? 


32  LONDON  RHYMES. 

The  stars  are  a  riddle  we  never  may  read, 
I  prest  her  poor  hand,  and  I  bade  her  Godspeed  I 
She  left  me  a  heart  overladen  with  sorrow — 
You  may  hear  Nelly's  laugh  at  the  palace  to- 
morrow 1 

Ah !  some  go  to  revel,  and  some  go  to  rue, 

For  some  go  to  ruin.     There's  Paul's  tolling  two. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  33 


MRS.   SMITH. 

Heigh-ho  t  thetfre  wed.     The  card*  are  dealt, 
Our  frolic  games  are  o'er; 

I've  laugh'd,  andfool'd,  and  loved.    Pvef fit- 
As  I  shall  feel  no  morel 

Yon  little  thatch  is  where  she  lives, 
Yon  spire  is  where  s/te  met  me  ;— 

/  think  that  if  she  quite  forgive* t 
She  cannot  quite  forget  me. 

Last  year  I  trod  these  fields  with  Di,— 
Fields  fresh  with  clover  and  with  rye ; 

They  now  seem  arid  : 
Then  Di  was  fair  and  single ;  how 
Unfair  it  seems  on  me,  for  now 

Di's  fair — and  married  1 

A  blissful  swain — I  scorn'd  the  song 
Which  tells  us  though  young  Love  is  strong, 

The  Fates  are  stronger  : 
Then  breezes  blew  a  boon  to  men, 
The  buttercups  were  bright,  and  then 

This  grass  was  longer. 


34  LONDON  RHYMES. 

That  day  I  saw  and  much  esteem'd 
Di's  ankles,  that  the  clover  seem'd 

Inclined  to  smother : 
I  twitch'd,  and  soon  untied  (for  fun) 
The  ribbon  of  her  shoes,  first  one, 

And  then  the  other. 

I'm  told  that  Virgins  augur  some 
Misfortune  if  their  shoe-strings  come 

To  grief  on  Friday : 
And  so  did  Di,  and  then  her  pride 
Decreed  that  shoe-strings  so  untied 

Are  "so  untidy!" 

Of  course  I  knelt;  with  fingers  deft 
I  tied  the  right,  and  tied  the  left : 

SaysDi,  "This  stubble 
Is  very  stupid  ! — as  I  live 
I'm  quite  ashamed  ! .  .  .  I'm  shock'd  to  give 

You  so  much  trouble  !  " 

For  answer  I  was  fain  to  sink 
To  what  we  all  would  say  and  think 
Were  Beauty  present  : 


LONDON  RHYMES.  35 

"  Don't  mention  such  a  simple  act — 
A  trouble  ?  not  the  least !  In  fact 
It's  rather  pleasant !  " 

I  trust  that  Love  will  never  tease 
Poor  little  Di,  or  prove  that  he's 

A  graceless  rover. 
She's  happy  now  as  Mrs.  Smith — 
And  less  polite  when  walking  with 

Her  chosen  lover  ! 

Heigh-ho  !    Although  no  moral  clings 
To  Di's  blue  eyes,  and  sandal  strings, 

We've  had  our  quarrels. 
I  think  that  Smith  is  thought  an  ass,~- 
I  know  that  when  they  walk  in  grass 

She  wears  balmorals. 
1864. 


36  LONDON  RHYMES, 


TO  LINA  OSWALD. 

(WITH  A  BIRTHDAY  LOCKET.) 

"  My  Darling  wants  to  see  you  soon" — 

/  bless  the  little  Maid,  and  thank  her; 
To  do  her  lidding,  night  and  noon 
1  draw  on  Hope — Love's  kindest  banker! 

Your  Sun  is  in  brightest  apparel, 

Your  birds  and  your  blossoms  are  gay, 

But  where  is  my  jubilant  carol 
To  welcome  so  joyous  a  day? 

I  sang  for  you  when  you  were  smaller, 
As  fair  as  a  fawn,  and  as  wild : 

Now,  Lina,  you're  ten  and  you're  taller — 
You  elderly  child. 

I  knew  you  in  shadowless  hours, 
When  thought  never  came  with  a  smart  ; 

You  then  were  the  pet  of  your  flowers, 
And  joy  was  the  child  of  your  heart. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  37 

I  ever  shall  love  you,  and  dearly  ! 

I  think  when  you're  even  thirteen 
You'll  still  have  a  heart,  and  not  merely 
A  flirting  machine  I 

And  when  time  shall  have  spoil'd  you  of  passion, 
Discrown'd  what  you  now  think  sublime, 

Oh,  I  swear  that  you'll  still  be  the  fashion, 
And  laugh  at  the  antics  of  Time. 

To  love  you  will  then  be  no  duty  ; 
But  happiness  nothing  can  buy — 

There's  a  bud  in  your  garland,  my  Beauty, 
That  never  can  die. 

A  heart  may  be  bruised  and  not  broken, 

A  soul  may  despair  and  still  reck  ; 
I  send  you,  dear  Child,  a  poor  token 

Of  love,  for  your  dear  little  neck. 
The  heart  that  will  beat  just  below  it 

Is  open  and  pure  as  your  brow — 
May  that  heart,  when  you  come  to  bestow  it, 
Be  happy  as  now. 

1869—1872. 


38  LONDON  RHYMES. 


THE  OLD  GOVERNMENT  CLERK. 
(OLD  STYLE.) 

A  kindly  good  Man,  quite  a  stranger  to  fame, 

His  heart  still  is  green,  thd  his  head  shows  a  hoar  lock; 

Perhaps  his  partwdar  star  is  to  blame ',— 
It  may  be  he  never  took  Time  by  the  forelock. 

We  knew  an  old  Scribe,  it  was  "once  on  a  time," 
An  era  to  set  sober  datists  despairing  : 

Then  let  them  despair  !    Darby  sat  in  a  chair 
Near  the  Cross  that  gave  name  to  the  Village  of 
Charing. 

Though  silent  and  lean,  Darby  was  not  malign, 
What  hair  he  had  left  was  more  silver  than  sable  ; 

He  had  also  contracted  a  curve  in  the  spine, 
From  bending  too  constantly  over  a  table. 

His  pay  and  expenditure,  quite  in  accord, 
Were  both  on  the  strictest  economy  founded ; 


LONDON  RHYMES.  39 

His  rulers  were  known  as  the  Sealing-wax  Board, — 
They  ruled   where  red-tape  and   snug  places 
abounded. 

In  his  heart  he  look'd  down  on  this  dignified  Knot ; 

And  why?     The   forefather  of  one   of  these 

senators — - 
A  rascal  concern' d  in  the  Gunpowder  Plot — 

Had  been  barber-surgeon  to  Darby's  progenitors. 

Poor  fool !  is  not  life  a  vagary  of  luck  ? 

For  thirty  long  years  of  genteel  destitution 
He'd  been  writing  despatches;  which  means  he 

had  stuck 

Some  heads  and  some  tails  to  much  circumlo- 
cution. 

Tbis  sounds  rather  weary  and  dreary  ;  but,  no  ! 
Though    strictly    inglorious,    his    days     were 

quiescent ; 
His  red-tape  was  tied  in  a  true-lover's  bow 

Every    night    when    returning    to    Rosemary 
Crescent. 


40  LONDON  RHYMES. 

There  Joan  meets  him  smiling,  the  Young  Ones 
are  there ; 

His  coming  is  bliss  to  the  half-dozen  wee  Things ; 
The  dog  and  the  cat  have  a  greeting  to  spare, 

And  Phyllis,  neat-handed,  is  laying  the  tea-things. 

East  wind,  sob  eerily  I     Sing,  kettle,  cheerily  ! 

Baby's  abed,  but  its  Father  will  rock  it ; — 
His  little  ones  boast  their  permission  to  toast 

That  cake  the  good  fellow  brings  home  in  his 
pocket. 

This  greeting  the  silent  Old  Clerk  understands, 
Now  his  friends  he  can  love,  had  he  foes  he  could 

mock  them  ; 

So  met,  so  surrounded,  his  bosom  expands, — 
Some  hearts  have  more  need  of  such  homes  to 
unlock  them. 

And  Darby  at  least  is  resign 'd  to  his  lot ; 

And  Joan,  rather  proud  of  the   sphere    he's 

adorning, 
Has  well-nigh  forgotten  that  Gunpowder  Plot, — 

And  he  won't  recall  it  till  ten  the  next  morning. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  41 

A  day  must  be  near  when,  in  pitiful  case, 

He  will  drop  from  his  Branch,  like  a  fruit  more 
than  mellow ; 

Is  he  yet  to  be  found  in  his  usual  place  ? 
Or  is  he  already  forgotten  ?  Poor  Fellow  ! 

If  still  at  his  duty  he  soon  will  arrive  ; 

He  passes  this  turning  because  it  is  shorter ; 
He  always  is  here  as  the  clock's  going  five  ! — 

Where  is  He  ?  .  .  Ah,  it  is  chiming  the  quarter ! 

1856, 


42  LONDON  RHYMES. 


OLD  LETTERS. 

Have  sorrows  come  ?    Has  pleasure  sped  t 
Is  earthly  bliss  an  empty  bubble  ? 

Is  some  one  dull,  or  something  dead  ? 
O  may  /,  mayn't  I  share  your  trouble  f 


Ay,  so  it  is,  and  is  it  fair  f 

Poor  men  (your  elders  and  your  betters  /) 
Who  can't  look  pretty  in  despair, 

Feel  quite  as  sad  about  their  letters. 

HER  LETTERS. 

Old  letters  !  wipe  away  the  tear 

For  vows  and  hopes  so  vainly  worded  ; 

A  Pilgrim  finds  his  Journal  here 

Since  first  his  youthful  loins  were  girded. 

Yes,  here  are  scrawls  from  Clapham  Rise ; 

Do  mothers  still  their  schoolboys  pamper  ? 
Oh  how  I  hated  Dr.  Wise  ! 

Oh  how  I  loved  a  well-fill'd  hamper  ! 


LONDON  RHYMES.  43 

How  strange  to  commune  with  the  Dead ! 

Dead  Joys,  dead  Loves.     Wan  leaves— how 

many 
From  Friendship's  tree  untimely  shed — 

And  here  is  one,  ah,  sad  as  any ; 

A  ghastly  bill !  "  I  disapprove." 

And  yet  She  help'd  me  to  defray  it : 
What  tokens  of  a  Mother's  love  ! 

0  bitter  thought,  — I  can't  repay  it. 

And  here's  the  offer  that  I  wrote 

In  '33  to  Lucy  Diver ; 
And  here  John  Wy lie's  begging  note,— 

He  never  paid  me  back  a  stiver. 

And  here  my  feud  with  Major  Spike  ; 

That  bet  about  the  French  Invasion  : — 
I  must  confess  I  acted  like 

A  simpleton  on  that  occasion. 

Here's  news  from  Paternoster  Row ; 

How  mad  I  was  when  first  I  learnt  it  ! 
They  would  not  take  my  Book,  and  now 

1  wish  to  goodness  I  had  burnt  it. 


44  LONDON  RHYMES. 

And  here's  a  score  of  notes  at  last, 

With"Z<rc><?"  and  "ZW*,"and  "Sever—  Never"; 
Though  hope,  though  passion  may  be  past, 

Their  perfume  seems,  ah,  sweet  as  ever. 

A  Human  Heart  should  beat  for  two, 
Whate'er  may  say  your  single  scorners ; 

And  all  the  Hearths  I  ever  knew 
Had  got  a  Pair  of  chimney-corners. 

See  here  a  double  violet — 

Two  locks  of  hair — A  deal  of  scandal  t 
I'll  burn  what  only  brings  regret  .  .  . 

Kitty >  go,  fetch  a  Lighted  Camlk. 

1856. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  45 


INCHBAE. 

Anon  he  shuts  the  solemn  book 
To  heed  the  falling  of  the  brook, 
He  cares  but  little  why  it  flows, 
Or  whence  it  comes,  or  where  it  goes. 

For  here,  on  this  delightful  bank, 
His  past — his  future  are  a  blank  ; 
Enough  for  him  the  bloom,  the  cheer, 
They  all  are  his  to-day,  and  here. 

But  hark !  a  voice  that  carols  free, 
And  fills  the  air  with  melody  ! 
She  comes  !  a  Creature  clad  in  grace* 
And  joyful  promise  in  her  face. 

So  let  her  fearlessly  intrude 

On  this  his  much-loved  solitude  ; 

Is  she  a  lovely  phantom,  or 

That  Love  he  long  has  waited  for  ? 


46  LONDON  RHYMES. 

0  welcome  as  the  morning  dew  ; 
Long,  long  have  I  expected  you  ; 
Come,  share  my  seat,  and,  late  or  soon, 
All  else  that's  mine  beneath  the  moon. 

And  sing  your  happy  roundelay 
While  Nature  listens.     Till  to-day 
This  mirthful  stream  has  never  known 
A  cadence  gladder  than  its  own  : 

Forgive  if  I  too  fondly  gaze, 

Or  praise  the  eyes  that  others  praise  : 

1  watch'd  my  Star,  I've  wander'd  far — 
Are  you  my  Joy  ?    You  know  you  are  I 

Let  others  praise,  as  others  prize, 
The  witching  twilight  of  your  eyes — 
I  cannot  praise  where  I  adore, 
And  that  is  praise — and  something  more. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  47 


THE  JESTER'S  PLEA. 

These  verses  were  published  in  1862,  in  a  volume  of  Poems 
(by  several  hands),  entitled  "An  Offering  to  Lancashire." 

The  world's  a  sorry  wench,  akin 

To  all  that's  frail  and  frightful : 
The  world's  as  ugly,  ay,  as  sin, — 

And  almost  as  delightful ! 
The  world's  a  merry  world  (pro  tern.), 

And  some  are  gay,  and  therefore 
It  pleases  them,  but  some  condemn 

The  world  they  do  not  care  for. 

1  he  world's  an  ugly  world.     Offend 

Good  people,  how  they  wrangle  ! 
Their  manners  that  they  never  mend, — 

The  characters  they  mangle  ! 
They  eat,  and  drink,  and  scheme,  and  plod,— 

They  go  to  church  on  Sunday  ; 
And  many  are  afraid  of  God— 

And  more  of  Mrs.  Grundy. 


LONDON  RHYMES. 

The  time  for  pen  and  sword  was  when 

"My  ladye  fayre"  for  pity 
Could  tend  her  wounded  knight,  and  ther 

Be  tender  to  his  ditty. 
Some  ladies  now  make  pretty  songs, 

And  some  make  pretty  nurses  : 
Some  men  are  great  at  righting  wrongs, 

And  some  at  writing  verses. 

I  wish  we  better  understood 

The  tax  our  poets  levy ; 
I  know  the  Muse  is  goody-good, 

I  think  she's  rather  heavy : 
She  now  compounds  for  winning  wayi 

By  morals  of  the  sternest ; 
Methinks  the  lays  of  nowadays 

Are  painfully  in  earnest. 

When  wisdom  halts,  I  humbly  try 

To  make  the  most  of  folly  : 
If  Pallas  be  unwilling,  I 

Prefer  to  flirt  with  Polly ; 


LONDON  RHYMES.  49 

To  quit  the  goddess  for  the  maid 

Seems  low  in  lofty  musers  ; 
But  Pallas  is  a  lofty  jade — 

And  beggars  can't  be  choosers 


I  do  not  wish  to  see  the  slaves 

Of  party  stirring  passion, 
Or  psalms  quite  superseding  staves, 

Or  piety  "  the  fashion." 
I  bless  the  Hearts  where  pity  glows, 

Who,  here  together  banded, 
Are  holding  out  a  hand  to  those 

That  wait  so  empty-handed  ! 

Masters,  may  one  in  motley  clad, 

A  Jester  by  confession, 
Scarce  noticed  join,  half  gay,  half  sad, 

The  close  of  your  procession  ? 
This  garment  here  seems  out  of  place 

With  graver  robes  to  mingle, 
But  if  one  tear  bedews  his  face, 

Forgive  the  bells  their  jingle. 


50  LONDON  RHYMES. 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  RING. 

(Christmas,  1854,  and  Christmas,  1863.) 

She  smiles,  but  her  heart  is  in  sable, 

Ay,  sad  as  her  Christmas  is  chill ; 
She  reads,  and  her  book  is  the  Fable 

He  penn'd  for  her  while  she  was  ill. 
It  is  nine  years  ago  since  he  wrought  it, 

Where  reedy  old  Tiber  is  king  ; 
And  chapter  by  chapter  he  brought  it, 

And  read  her  The  Rose  and  the  Ring. 

And  when  it  was  printed,  and  gaining 

Renown  with  all  lovers  of  glee, 
He  sent  her  this  copy  containing 

His  comical  little  croquis ; 
A  sketch  of  a  rather  droll  couple, 

She's  pretty,  he's  quite  t'other  thing ! 
He  begs  (with  a  spine  vastly  supple) 

She  will  study  The  Rose  and  the  Ring. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  51 

It  pleased  the  kind  Wizard  to  send  her 

The  last  and  the  best  of  his  Toys ; 
He  aye  had  a  sentiment  tender 

For  innocent  maidens  and  boys  : 
And  though  he  was  great  as  a  scorner, 

The  guileless  were  safe  from  his  sting  : 
How  sad  is  past  mirth  to  the  mourner — 

A  tear  on  The  Rose  and  the  Ring! 

She  reads ;  I  may  vainly  endeavour 

Her  mirth-chequer'd  grief  to  pursue, 
For  she  knows  she  has  lost,  and  for  ever, 

The  heart  that  was  bared  to  so  few  ; 
But  here,  on  the  shrine  of  his  glory, 

One  poor  little  blossom  I  fling ; 
And  you  see  there's  a  nice  little  story 

Attach'd  to  The  Rose  and  the  Ring, 


53  LONDON  RHYMES. 


NUPTIAL  VERSES. 

"  Romance  can  roam,  not  far  from  home  I 
Knock  gently,  she  must  answer  soon  ; 

I'm  sixty-five,  and  yet  I  strive 
To  hang  my  garland  on  the  moon!* 

The  town  despises  modern  lays  : 

The  foolish  town  is  frantic 
For  story-books  that  tell  of  days 

Which  time  has  made  romantic  ; 
Of  days,  whose  chiefest  glories  fill 

The  gloom  of  crypt  and  barrow  ; 
When  soldiers  were,  as  Love  is  still, 

Content  with  bow  and  arrow. 

But  why  should  we  the  fancy  chide  ? 

The  world  will  always  hunger 
To  know  how  people  lived  and  died 

When  all  the  world  was  younger. 
We  like  to  read  of  knightly  parts 

In  maidenhood's  distresses, 


LONDON  RHYMES.  53 

Of  tryst,  with  sunshine  in  light  hearts ; 
And  moonbeam  on  dark  tresses ; 

And  how,  when  errante-knyghte  or  erl 

Proved  well  the  love  he  gave  her, 
She'd  send  him  scarf  or  silken  curl, 

As  earnest  of  her  favour ; 
And  how  (the  Fair  at  times  were  rude !) 

Her  knight,  ere  homeward  riding, 
Would  take,  and,  ay  with  gratitude, 

His  lady's  silver  chiding. 

We  love  the  rare  old  days  and  rich 

That  poetry  has  painted  ; 
We  mourn  those  pleasant  days  with  which 

We  never  were  acquainted. 
Absurd  !  our  modern  world's  divine, 

A  world  to  dare  and  do  in, 
A  more  romantic  world.     In  fine 

A  better  world  to  woo  in  1 

The  flow  of  life  is  yet  a  rill 

That  laughs,  and  leaps,  and  glistens  ; 
And  still  the  woodland  rings,  and  still 

The  old  Damcetas  listens. 


LONDON  RHYMES. 

Romance,  as  tender  as  she's  true, 

Our  Isle  has  never  quitted  : 
So,  LAD  and  LASSIE,  when  you  woo, 

You  hardly  need  be  pitied. 

Our  lot  is  cast  on  pleasant  days, 

In  not  unpleasant  places  ; 
Young  ladies  now  have  pretty  ways, 

As  well  as  pretty  faces  ; 
So  never  sigh  for  what  has  been, 

And  let  us  cease  complaining 
That  we  have  loved  when  our  dear  Queen 

VICTORIA  was  reigning. 

Oh  yes,  young  love  is  lovely  yet, 

With  faith  and  honour  plighted  : 
I  love  to  see  a  pair  so  met, 

Youth — Beauty — all  united. 
Such  Dear  Ones  may  they  ever  wear 

The  roses  fortune  gave  them : 
Ah,  know  we  such  a  BLESSED  PAIR  ? 

I  think  we  do  !  GOD  SAVE  THEM  ! 


LONDON  RHYMES.  55 


AN  OLD  BUFFER. 

BUFFER. — A  cushion  or  apparatus,  with  strong  springs, 
to  deaden  the  buff  or  concussion  between  a  moving  body  and 
one  on  which  it  strikes.— Webster's  English  Dictionary. 

"  If  Blossom's  a  seep  tic >  or  saucy,  I'll  search, 
And V II find  her  a  wholesome  corrective — in  Church  /  " 
MAMMA  loquitur. 

"A    knock-me-down    sermon,    and    worthy    of 

Birch," 

Says  I  to  my  Wife,  as  we  toddle  from  church  5 
"  Convincing  indeed  ! "  is  the  lady's  remark  ; 
"How  logical,  too,  on  the  size  of  the  Ark  ! " 
Then    Blossom    cut   in,    without    begging    our 

pardons, 
"  Pa,  was  it  as  big  as  the  'Logical  Gardens  ?" 


"  Miss  Blossom,"  says  I  to  my  dearest  of  Dearies, 
"  Papa  disapproves  of  nonsensical  queries  ; 
The  Ark  was  an  Ark,  and  had  people  to  build  it, 
Enough  that  we're  told  Noah  built  it  and  fill'd  it : 


56  LONDON  RHYMES. 

Mamma  doesn't  ask  how  he  caught  his  opossums.' 
— Said  she,    "That  remark  is  as  foolish  as 
Blossom's  1 " 


Thus  talking  and  walking,  the  time  is  beguiled 

By  my  orthodox  Wife  and  my  sceptical  Child ; 

I  act  as  their  buffer,  whenever  I  can, 

And  you  see  I'm  of  use  as  a  family  man. 

I  parry  their  blows,  and  I've  plenty  to  do — 

I  think  that  the  Child's  are  the  worst  of  the  two  ! 

My  Wife  has  a  healthy  aversion  for  sceptics, 
She  vows  they  are  bad — why,  they're  only  dys- 
peptics ! 

May  Blossom  prove  neither  the  one  nor  the  other, 
But  do  as  she's  bid  by  her  excellent  mother. 
She  thinks  I'm  a  Solon  ;  perhaps,  if  I  huff  her, 
She'll  think  I'm  a.  .  .  Something  that's  denser  and 
tougher. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  57 


MANY  YEARS  AFTER. 

ANOTHER  POET  SPEAKS. 
(See  Note.) 

I  saw  some  books  exposed  for  sale- 
Some  dear,  and  some — stage- play  and  tale—- 
As dear  as  any  : 
A  few,  perhaps  more  orthodox 
Or  torn,  were  tumbled  in  a  box — 

'  All  these  a  penny* 

I  open'd  one  at  hazard,  but 

Its  leaves,  though  soil'd,  were  still  uncut ; 

And  yet  before 
I'd  read  a  page,  I  felt  indeed 
A  wish  to  cut  that  leaf,  and  read 

Some  pages  more. 

A  Poet  sang  of  what  befel 
When,  years  gone  by,  he'd  paced  Pall  Mall : 
While  walking  thus— 


58  LONDON  RHYMES. 

A  Boy — he'd  met  a  Maiden.    Then 
Fair  women  all  were  brave,  and  men 
Were  virtuous ! 

They  oft  had  met,  he  wonder'd  why  ; 
He  praised  her  sprightly  air,  and  I 

Believe  he  meant  it : 
They  never  spoke,  but  if  he  smiled 
Her  eyes  had  seem'd  to  say  (poor  Child  I) 

'  I  don't  resent  it? 

And  then  this  Poet  mused  and  grieved, 
In  kindly  strain,  his  Verse  relieved 

By  kindlier  jest : 

Then  he,  with  sad,  prophetic  glance, 
Bethought  him  she,  ere  then,  perchance 

Had  found  her  rest. 

Then  I  was  minded  how  my  Joy 
Sometimes  had  told  me  of  a  Boy 

With  curly  head — 

'  You  know,'  she'd  laugh — (she  then  was  well !) 
'  I  used  to  meet  him  in  Pall  Mall, 

Ere  you  me  wed.' 


LONDON  RHYMES.  59 

And  then,  for  fun,  she'd  vow,  '  Good  lack, 
I'll  go  there  now  and  fetch  thee  back 

At  least  a  curl ! ' 

She  once  was  here,  now  she  is  gone ! 
And  so,  you  see,  my  Wife  was  yon 

Bright  little  Girl ! 

I  am  not  one  for  shedding  tears ; 

That  Boy's  now  dead,  or  bow'd  with  years ; 

But  see — sometimes 

He'd  thought  of  Her  ! — that  made  me  weep  ; 
That's  why  I  bought — and  why  I  keep 

His  Book  of  Rhyme*. 
1878. 


60  LONDON  RHYMES. 


GERALDINE   GREEN. 

i. 

THE   SERENADE. 

IfpatJws  should  thy  bosom  stir 

To  tears  more  sweet  than  Ianghtir9 

Then  bless  its  kind  interpreter, 
And  love  him  ever  after! 

Light  slumber  is  quitting 

The  eyelids  it  prest ; 
The  fairies  are  flitting, 

Who  lull'd  thee  to  rest. 
Where  night  dews  were  falling^ 

Now  feeds  the  wild  bee ; 
The  starling  is  calling, 

My  Darling,  for  thee. 

The  wavelets  are  crisper 
That  thrill  the  shy  fern  ; 

The  leaves  fondly  whisper, 
"  We  wait  thy  return." 


LONDON  RHYMES.  61 

Arise  then,  and  hazy 

Regrets  from  thee  fling^ 
For  sorrows  that  crazy 

To-morrows  may  bring. 

A  vague  yearning  smote  us, 

But  wake  not  to  weep  ; 
My  bark,  Love,  shall  float  us 

Across  the  still  deep, 
To  isles  where  the  lotus 

Erst  lull'd  thee  to  sleep. 
1861. 


II. 

MY  LIFE  IS  A . 

At  Worthing,  an  exile  from  Geraldine  G , 

How  aimless,  how  wretched  an  Exile  is  he  ! 
Promenades  are  not  even  prunella  and  leather 
To  lovers,  if  lovers  can't  foot  them  together. 

He  flies  the  parade,  by  the  ocean  he  stands  ; 
He  traces  a  "  Geraldine  G."  on  the  sands 5 


62  LONDON  RHYMES. 

Only  "G. !"  though  her  loved  patronymic  is 

"Green,"— 
"  I  will  not  betray  thee,  my  own  Geraldine." 

The  fortunes  of  men  have  a  time  and  a  tide, 
And  Fate,  the  old  Fury,  will  not  be  denied ; 
That  name  was,  of  course,  soon  wiped  out  by  the 

sea, — 
She  jilted  the  Exile,  did  Geraldine  G. 

They  meet,  but  they  never  have  spoken  since  that ; 
He  hopes  she  is  happy, — he  knows  she  is  fat ; 
She>  woo'd  on  the  shore,  now  is  wed  in  the  Strand ; 
And  7— it  was  I  wrote  her  name  on  the  sand. 
1854. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  63 


FROM  THE  CRADLE. 

They  tell  me  I  was  born  a  long 

Three  months  ago, 
But  whether  they  be  right  or  wrong 

I  hardly  know. 
I  sleep,  I  smile,  I  cannot  crawl, 

But  I  can  cry : 
At  present  I  am  rather  small — 

A  Babe  am  I. 

The  changing  lights  of  sun  and  shade 

Are  baby  toys ; 
The  flowers  and  birds  are  not  afraid 

Of  baby-boys. 
Some  day  I'll  wish  that  I  could  be 

A  bird  and  fly ; 
At  present  I  can't  wish — you  see 

A  Babe  am  I. 


64  LONDON  RHYMES, 


THE  TWINS. 

Yes,  there  they  lie,  so  small,  so  quaint, 
Two  mouths,  two  noses,  and  two  chins; 

What  Painter  shall  we  get  to  paint 
And  glorify  the  Twins? 

To  give  us  all  the  charm  that  dwells 

In  tiny  cloaks  and  coral-bells, 

And  all  those  other  pleasant  spells 

Of  Babyhood,  and  not  forget 

The  silver  mug  for  either  Pet- 
No  babe  should  be  without  it  ? 

Come,  Fairy  Limner !  you  can  thrill 

Our  hearts  with  pink  and  daffodil, 

And  white  rosette,  and  dimpled  frill ; 

Come,  paint  our  little  Jack  and  Jill, 
And  don't  be  long  about  it  I 


LONDON  RHYMES.  65 


THE  OLD  CRADLE, 

And  this  was  your  Cradle?    Why,  surely,  my 
Jenny, 

Such  cosy  dimensions  go  clearly  to  show 
You  were  an  exceedingly  small  Picaninny 

Some  nineteen  or  twenty  short  summers  ago. 

Your  baby-days  flow'd   in   a   much-troubled 
channel ; 

I  see  you,  as  then,  in  your  impotent  strife, 
A  tight  little  bundle  of  wailing  and  flannel, 

Perplex'd  with  the  newly-found  fardel  of  Life. 

To  hint  at  an  infantile  frailty's  a  scandal ; 

Let  bygones  be  bygones,  for  somebody  knows 
It  was  bliss  such  a  Baby  to  dance  and  to 

dandle, — 

Your  cheeks  were  so  dimpled,   so  rosy  your 
toesl 

F 


66  LONDON  RHYMES. 

Ay,  here  is  your  Cradle;  and  Hope,  a  bright 
spirit, 

With  Love  now  is  watching  beside  it,  I  know. 
They  guard  the  wee  Nest  it  was  yours  to  inherit 

Some  nineteen  or  twenty  short  summers  ago. 

It  is  Hope  gilds  the  future,  Love  welcomes  it 

smiling; 
Thus  wags  this  old  World,  therefore  stay  not 

to  ask, 

"  My  future  bids  fair,  is  my  future  beguiling?" 
If  mask'd,  still  it  pleases — then  raise  not  its 
mask. 

Is  Life  a  poor  coil  some  would  gladly  be  doffing? 

He  is  riding  post-haste  who  their  wrongs  will 

adjust; 
For  at  most  'tis  a  footstep  from  cradle  to  coffin — 

From  a  spoonful  of  pap  to  a  mouthful  of  dust. 

Then  smile  as  your  future  is  smiling,  my  Jenny; 
I  see  you,  except  for  those  infantine  woes, 


LONDON  RHYMES.  67 

Little  changed  since  you  were  but  a  small  Pica- 
ninny — 
Your  cheeks  were  so  dimpled,  so  rosy  your  toes ! 

Ay,  here  is  your  Cradle,  much,  much  to  my  liking, 
Though  nineteen  or  twenty  long  winters  have 
sped. 

Hark  !  As  I'm  talking  there's  six  o'clock  striking,  — 
It  is  time  JENNY'S  BABY  should  be  in  its  bed. 

•*»' 


68  LONDON  RHYMES. 


LOVE,  TIME,  AND  DEATH. 

Ah  me,  dread  friends  of  mine — Love,  Time,  and 
Death  1 

Sweet  Love,  who  came  to  me  on  sheeny  wing, 
And  gave  her  to  my  arms — her  lips,  her  breath, 

And  all  her  golden  ringlets  clustering : 
And  Time  who  gathers  in  the  flying  years, 

He  gave  me  all,  but  where  is  all  he  gave  ? 
He  took  my  Love  and  left  me  barren  tears, 

Weary  and  lone  I  follow  to  the  grave. 
There  Death  will  end  this  vision  half  divine, — 

Wan  Death,  who  waits  in  shadow  evermore, 
And  silent,  ere  he  give  the  sudden  sign. 

O,  gently  lead  me  thro'  thy  narrow  door, 
Thou  gentle  Death,  thou  trustiest  friend  of  mine—- 
Ah me,  for  Love  .  .  .  will  Death  my  Love 
restore  ? 


LONDON  RHYMES.  69 


AN  EPITAPH. 

Her  worth,  her  wit,  her  loving  smile 

Were  with  me  but  a  little  while ; 

She  came,  she  went ;  yet  though  that  Voice 

Is  hush'd  that  made  the  heart  rejoice, 

And  though  the  grave  is  dark  and  chill, 

Her  memory  is  fragrant  still, — 

She  stands  on  the  eternal  hill. 

Here  pause,  kind  soul,  whoe'er  you  be, 
And  weep  for  her,  and  pray  for  me, 


70  LONDON  RHYMES. 


BABY  MINE. 

Baby  mine,  with  the  grave,  grave  face, 
Where  did  you  get  that  royal  calm, 

Too  staid  for  joy,  too  still  for  grace? 
I  bend  as  I  kiss  your  pink,  soft  palm ; 

Are  you  the  first  of  a  nobler  race, 

Baby  mine  ? 

You  come  from  the  region  of  long  ago, 

And  gazing  awhile  where  the  seraphs  dwell 

Has  given  your  face  a  glory  and  glow — 
Of  that  brighter  land  have  you  aught  to  tell  ? 

I  seem  to  have  known  it — I  more  would  know, 
Baby  mine. 

Your  calm,  blue  eyes  have  a  far-off  reach, 
Look  at  me  now  with  those  wondrous  eyes, 

Why  are  we  doom'd  to  the  gift  of  speech 
While  you  are  silent,  and  sweet,  and  wise  ? 

You  have  much  to  learn— you  have  more  to  teach, 
Baby  mine. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  71 


DU  RYS  DE  MADAME  D'ALLEBRET. 

How  fair  those  locks  which  now  the  light- wind  stirs! 

What  eyes  she  has,  and  what  a  perfect  arm  ! 
And  yet  methinks  that  little  Laugh  of  hers — 

That  little  Laugh  is  still  her  crowning  charm. 
Where'er  she  passes,  countryside  or  town, 

The  streets  make  festa,  and  the  fields  rejoice. 
Should  sorrow  come,  as  't  will,  to  cast  me  down, 

Or  Death,  as  come  he  must,  to  hush  my  voice, 
Her  Laugh  would  wake  me,  just  as  now  it  thrills 

me — 
That  little  giddy  Laugh  wherewith  she  kills  me. 


72       LONDON  RHYMES. 


THE  LADY  I  LOVE. 

The  Lady  I  sing  is  as  charming  as  Spring, 
I  own  that  I  love  the  dear  Lady  I  sing  : 
She  is  gay,  she  is  sad,  she  is  good,  she  is  fair, 
She  lives  at  a  Number  in Square. 

It  is  not  21,  it  is  not  23 — 
You  never  shall  get  at  her  Number  from  me ; 
If  you  did,  very  soon  you'd  be  mounting  the  stair 
Of  Number  (no  matter  what  !) Square. 

They  say  she  is  clever.     Indeed  it  is  said 
She  is  making  a  Novel  right  out  of  her  Head  ! 
That  poor  little  Head  !    If  her  Heart  were  to  spare 
I'd  break,  and  I'd  mend  it  in Square. 

I've  a  heart  of  my  own,  and,  in  prose  as  in  rhymes, 
This  heart  has  been  fractured  a  good  many  times  ; 
An  excellent  heart,  tho'  in  sorry  repair — 
Little  Friend,  may  I  mend  it  in Square  f 


LONDON  RHYMES.  73 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk"   Yes,  but  still  I  am  one 
Who  feels  pretty  grave  when  he  seems  full  of  fun  ; 
Some  people  are  pretty,  and  yet  full  of  care — 
And  Some  One  is  pretty  in Square. 

I  know  I  am  singing  in  old-fashion'd  phrase 
The  music  that  pleased  in  the  old-fashion'd  days ; 
Alas,  I  know,  too,  I've  an  old-fashion'd  air—- 
Oh, why  did  I  ever  see Square  I 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The  writer  of  prose,  by  intelligence  taught, 

Says  the  thing  that  will  please,  in  the  way  that  he  ought 

But  your  poor  despised  Bard,  who  by  Nature  is  blest, 

(In  the  scope  of  a  couplet,  or  guise  of  a  jest,) 

Says  the  thing  that  he  pleases  as  pleases  him  best. 


74  LONDON  RHYMES. 


OUR  PHOTOGRAPHS. 

She  play'd  me  false,  but  that's  not  why 
I  haven't  quite  forgiven  Di, 

Although  I've  tried : 
This  curl  was  hers,  so  brown,  so  bright, 
She  gave  it  me  one  blissful  night, 

And — more  beside  ! 

Our  photographs  were  group'd  together ; 
She  wore  the  darling  hat  and  feather 

That  I  adore ;  • 

In  profile  by  her  side  I  sat 
Reading  my  poetry — but  that 

She'd  heard  before. 

Why,  after  all,  Di  threw  me  over 
I  never  knew,  I  can't  discover, 

And  hardly  guess ; 
May  be  Smith's  lyrics  she  decided 
Were  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  I  did — 

I  acquiesce. 


« 
LONDON  RHYMES.  75 

A  week  before  their  wedding  day, 
That  Beast  was  call'd  in  haste  away 

To  join  the  Staff. 

Di  gave  him  then,  with  tearful  mien, 
Her  only  photograph.     I've  seen 

That  photograph, 

I've  seen  it  in  Smith's  pocket-book  ! 
Just  think  !  her  hat,  her  tender  look. 

Are  now  that  Brute's  ! 
Before  she  gave  it,  off  she  cut 
My  body,  head,  and  lyrics,  but 
She  was  obliged,  the  little  Slut, 

To  leave  my  Boots, 


76  LONDON  RHYMES. 


MY  FIRST-BORN. 

"  He  shan't  be  their  namesake,  the  rather 
That  both  are  such  opulent  men  : 

His  name  shall  be  that  of  his  father, 
My  Benjamin,  shorten'd  to  Ben. 

"  Yes,  Ben,  though  it  cost  him  a  portion 

In  each  of  my  relatives'  wills  : 
I  scorn  such  baptismal  extortion — 

(That  creaking  of  boots  must  be  Squills.) 

"  It  is  clear,  though  his  means  may  be  narrow, 

This  infant  his  Age  will  adorn  ; 
I  shall  send  him  to  Oxford  from  Harrow, — 

I  wonder  how  soon  he'll  be  born  !  " 

A  spouse  thus  was  airing  his  fancies 

Below,  'twas  a  labour  of  love, 
And  was  calmly  reflecting  on  Nancy's 

More  practical  labour  above  ; 


LONDON  RHYMES.  77 

Yet  while  it  so  pleased  him  to  ponder, 

Elated,  at  ease,  and  alone  5 
That  pale,  patient  victim  up  yonder 

Had  budding  delights  of  her  own : 

Sweet  thoughts,  in  their  essence  diviner 

Than  paltry  ambition  and  pelf; 
A  cherub,  no  babe  will  be  finer  ! 

Invented  and  nursed  by  herself; 

At  breakfast,  and  dining,  and  teaing, 

An  appetite  nought  can  appease, 
And  quite  a  Young-Reasoning-Being 

When  call'd  on  to  yawn  and  to  sneeze. 

What  cares  that  heart,  trusting  and  tender, 

For  fame  or  avuncular  wills  ? 
Except  for  the  name  and  the  gender, 

She's  almost  as  tranquil  as  Squills. 

That  father,  in  reverie  centred, 

Dumbfounder'd,  his  thoughts  in  a  whirl, 

Heard  Squills,  as  the  creaking  boots  enter'd, 
Announce  that  his  Boy  was — a  Girl. 


78  LONDON  RHYMES. 


MR.  PLACID'S  FLIRTATION. 

Jemima  was  cross,  and  I  lost  my  umbrella 
That  day  at  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella. 

LETTERS  FROM  ROME. 

Miss  Tristram's  poulet  ended  thus :  "  Nota  bene, 

We  meet  for  croquet  in  the  Aldobrandini." 

Says  my  wife,  "  Then  I'll  drive,  and  you'll  ride 

with  Selina" 
(Jones's  fair  spouse,  of  the  Via  Sistina). 

We  started  :  I'll  own  that  my  family  deem 

I'm  an  ass,  but  I'm  not  quite  the  ass  that  I  seem  ; 

As  we  cross'd  the  stones  gently  a  nursemaid  said 

"La- 
There  goes  Mrs.  Jones  with  Miss  Placid's  papa  ! " 


Our  friends,  one  or  two  may  be  mentioned  anon, 
Had  arranged  rendezvous  at  the  Gate  of  St.  John  : 


LONDON  RHYMES.  79 

That  pass'd,  off  we  spun  over  turf  that's  not  green 

there, 
And  soon  were  all  met  at  the  villa.    You've  been 

there? 


I'll  try  and  describe,  or  I  won't,  if  you  please, 
The  cheer  that  was  set  for  us  under  the  trees  : 
You  have  read  the  menu,  may  you  read  it  again ; 
Champagne,  perigord,  galantine,  and— champagne. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  I  got  seated  between 

Mrs.  Jones  and  old  Brown — to  the  latter's  chagrin. 

Poor  Brown,  who  believes  in  himself,  and — another 

thing, 
Whose  talk  is  so  bald,  but  whose  cheeks  are  so — 

t'other  thing. 

She  sang,  her  sweet  voice  fill'd  the  gay  garden 

alleys ; 

I  jested,  but  Brown  would  not  smile  at  my  sallies ; — 
(Selina  remark'd  that  a  swell  met  at  Rome 
Is  not  always  a  swell  when  you  meet  him  at  home.) 


8o  LONDON  RHYMES. 

The  luncheon  despatched,  we  adjourn'd  to  croquet, 
A  dainty,  but  difficult  sport  in  its  way. 
Thus  I  counsel  the  sage,  who  to  play  at  it  stoops, 
Belabour  thy   neighbour,  and  spoon  through  thy 
hoops. 

Then  we  stroll'd,  and  discourse  found  its  kindest 

of  tones  : 

"How  charming  were  solitude  and — Mrs.  Jones  1 ' 
"  Indeed,  Mr.  Placid,  I  dote  on  the  sheeny 
And  shadowy  paths  of  the  Aldobrandmi  1 " 

A  girl  came  with  violet  posies,  and  two 
Soft  eyes,  like  her  violets,  freshen'd  with  dew, 
And  a  kind  of  an  indolent,  fine-lady  air,— 
As  if  she  by  accident  found  herself  there. 

I  bought  one.     Selina  was  pleased  to  accept  it ; 
She  gave  me  a  rosebud  to  keep — and  I've  kept  it. 
Then  twilight  was  near,  and  I  think,  in  my  heart, 
When  she  vow'd  she  must  go,  she  was  loth  to 
depart. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  81 

Cattivo  momenta  !  we  dare  not  delay  : 
The  steeds  are  remounted,  and  wheels  roll  away  : 
The  ladies  condemn  Mrs.  Jones,  as  the  phrase  is, 
But  vie  with  each  other  in  chanting  my  praises. 

"He  has  so  much  to  say!"  cries  the  fair  Mrs. 

Legge; 

"  How  amusing  he  was  about  missing  the  peg ! " 
"What  a  beautiful  smile  1 "  says  the  plainest  Miss 

Gunn. 
All  echo,   "  He's  charming  !   delightful !— What 

fun!" 

This  sounds  rather  nice,  and  it's  perfectly  clear  it 
Had  sounded  more  nice  had  I  happen'd  to  hear  it ; 
The  men  were  less  civil,  and  gave  me  a  rub, 
So  I  happen'd  to  hear  when  I  went  to  the  Club. 

Says  Brown,  "  I  shall  drop  Mr.  Placid's  society  ; 
(Brown  is  a  prig  of  improper  propriety ;) 
"Hang  him,"  said  Smith  (who  from  cant's  not 

exempt) 

"  Why  he'll  bring  immorality  into  contempt." 
G 


82  LONDON  RHYMES. 

Says  I  (to  myself)  when  I  found  me  alone, 
"  My  wife  has  my  heart,  is  it  always  her  own  ?" 
And  further,  says  I  (to  myself)  "  I'll  be  shot 
If  I  know  if  Selina  adores  me  or  not." 

Says  Jones,  "  I've  just  come  from  the  scavi,  at  Veii, 
And  I've  bought  some  remarkably  fine  scarabaei  I " 


LONDON  RHYMES.  83 


ST.   GEORGE'S,  HANOVER  SQUARE. 

She  pass'd  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  her  sire, 
A  delicate  lady  in  bridal  attire, 

Fair  emblem  of  virgin  simplicity ; 
Half  London  was  there,  and,  my  word,  there  were 

few 
That  stood  by  the  altar,  or  hid  in  a  pew, 

But  envied  Lord  Nigel's  felicity. 

Beautiful  Bride  !  So  meek  in  thy  splendour, 
So  frank  in  thy  love,  and  its  trusting  surrender, 

Departing  you  leave  us  the  town  dim  ! 
May  happiness  wing  to  thy  bower,  unsought, 
And  may  Nigel,  esteeming  his  bliss  as  he  ought, 

Prove  worthy  thy  worship, — confound  him ! 


LONDON  RHYMES. 


MA  FUTURE. 

We  parted,  but  again  I  stopt 

To  greet  her  at  the  door, 
Her  thimble,  mine  the  gift,  had  dropt 

Unheeded  to  the  floor. 

Her  eyes  met  mine,  her  eyelids  fell 
To  veil  their  sweet  content ; 

Her  happy  blush  and  kind  farewell 
Were  with  me  as  I  went. 

And  when  I  join'd  the  human  tide 

And  turmoil  of  the  street, 
A  Spirit-form  was  at  my  side, 

And  gladness  wing'd  my  feet. 

Exultingly  the  world  went  by, 
The  town  and  I  were  gay  ! 

And  one  far  stretch  of  soft  blue  sky 
Seem*d  leading  me  away. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  85 

I  left  her  happy,  and  I  know 

That  we  shall  meet  anon  ; 
I  left  my  Love  an  hour  ago, 

And  yet  she  is  not  gone* 


86  LONDON  RHYMES. 


VANITY  FAIR. 

"  Vanitas  vanitatum  "  has  rung  in  the  ears 
Of  gentle  and  simple  for  thousands  of  years ; 
The  wail  still  is  heard,  yet  its  notes  never  scare 
Either  simple  or  gentle  from  Vanity  Fair. 

I  often  hear  people  abusing  it,  yet 
There  the  young  go  to  learn  and  the  old  to  forget ; 
The  mirth  may  be  feigning,  the  sheen  may  be  glare, 
But  the  gingerbread's  gilded  in  Vanity  Fair. 

Old  Dives  there  rolls  in  his  chariot,  but  mind 
Black  Care  has  crept  up  with  the  lacqueys  behind ; 
Joan  trudges  with  Jack, — are  the  Sweethearts  aware 
Of  the  trouble  that  waits  them  in  Vanity  Fair  ? 

We  saw  them  all  go,  and  we  something  may  learn 
Of  the  harvest  they  reap  when  we  see  them  return ; 
The  tree  was  enticing,  its  branches  are  bare,— 
Heigho  for  the  promise  of  Vanity  Fair. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  87 

That  stupid  old  Dives,  once  honest  enough, 
His  honesty  sold  for  star,  ribbon,  and  stuff ; 
And  Joan's  pretty  face  has  been  clouded  with  care 
Since  Jack  bought  her  ribbons  at  Vanity  Fair. 

Contemptible  Dives  !  too  credulous  Joan  ! 
Yet  we  all  have  a  Vanity  Fair  of  our  own ; 
My  son,  you  have  yours,  but  you  need  not  despair — 
I  own  I've  a  weakness  for  Vanity  Fair. 

Philosophy  halts — wise  counsels  are  vain, 
We  go,  we  repent,  we  return  there  again  ; 
To-night  you  will  certainly  meet  with  us  there — 
So  come  and  be  merry  in  Vanity  Fair. 

185* 


88  LONDON  RHYMES. 


MY  NEIGHBOUR'S  WIFE ! 

Hark  !     Hark  to  my  neighbour's  flute  ! 
Yon  powder'd  slave,  that  ox,  that  ass  are  his : 
Hark  to  his  wheezy  pipe ;  my  neighbour  is 
A  worthy  sort  of  brute. 

My  tuneful  neighbour's  rich — has  houses,  lands, 
A  wife  (confound  his  flute) — a  handsome  wife  1 
Her  love  must  give  a  gusto  to  his  life. 
See  yonder — there  she  stands. 

She  turns,  she  gazes,  she  has  lustrous  eyes, 
A  throat  like  Juno,  and  Aurora's  arms — 
Per  Bacco,  what  a  paragon  of  charms  ! 
My  neighbour's  drawn  a  prize. 

Yet,  somehow,  life's  a  nuisance  with  its  woes, 
Disease  and  doubt — and  that  eternal  preaching : 
We've  suffer'd  from  our  early  pious  teaching — 
We  suffer— goodness  knows. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  89 

How  vain  the  wealth  that  breeds  its  own 

vexation  I 

Yet  few  of  us  would  care  to  quite  forego  it : 
Then  weariness  of  life — and  many  know  it — 
Is  not  a  glad  sensation  : 

And,  therefore,  neighbour  mine,  without  a 

sting 

I  contemplate  thy  fields,  thy  house,  thy  flocks, 
I  covet  not  thy  man,  thine  ass,  thine  ox, 
Thy  flute,  thy— anything. 


90  LONDON  RHYMES. 


ARCADY. 

LIVELY  SHEPHERDESS. 

Now  mind, 

He'll  call  on  you  to-morrow  at  eleven, 
And  beg  that  you  will  dine  with  us  at  seven ; 
If,  when  He  calls,  you  see  that  He  has  got 
His  green  umbrella,  then  you'll  know  He'll  not 
Be  going  to  the  House,  and  you'll  decline, 
But  if  He  hasn't  it,  you'll  come  and  dine. 

HAPPY  SHEPHERD. 

But  if  it  rains  :  then  how  ?  and  where  ?  and  when  ? 
And  how  about  the  green  umbrella  then? 

LIVELY  SHEPHERDESS. 
Then  He'll  be  Wet,  that's  all,  for  if  I  don't 
Choose  He  should  take  it,  why,  of  course !  you 
goose  1  he  won't. 


LONDON  RHYMES.  91 


MABEL'S  MUFF. 

She's  jealous  !    Does  it  grieve  me  ?    No ! 
I'm  glad  to  see  my  Mabel  so, 

Carina  mia  ! 

Poor  Puss  !    That  now  and  then  she  draws 
Conclusions,  not  without  a  cause, 

Is  my  idea. 

She  loves  ;  and  I'm  prepared  to  prove 
That  jealousy  is  kin  to  love 

In  constant  women. 
My  jealous  Pussy  cut  up  rough 
The  day  before  I  bought  her  muff 

With  sable  trimming. 

These  tearful  darlings  think  to  quell  us 
By  being  so  divinely  jealous ; 

But  I  know  better. 

Hillo!     Who's  that!    A  damsel!    Come, 
I'll  follow  : — no,  I  can't,  for  some 

One  else  has  met  her. 


92  LONDON  RHYMES. 

What  fun !    He  looks  "  a  lad  of  grace." 
She  holds  her  muff  to  hide  her  face ; 

They  kiss,— The  Sly  Puss  I 
Hillo  I  Her  muff,— it's  trimm'd  with  sable  ! 
It's  like  the  muff  I  gave  to  Mabel  J  .  .  . 

Goodl-o-r-d,  SHE'S  MY  PUSS  I 


LONDON  RHYMES.  93 


A  KIND  PROVIDENCE. 

He  dropt  a  tear  on  Susan's  bier, 

He  seem'd  a  most  despairing  Swain; 
But  bluer  sky  brought  newer  tie, 

And — would  he  wish  her  back  again  ? 
The  moments  fly,  and  when  we  die, 

Will  Philly  Thistletop  complain? 
She'll  cry  and  sigh,  and — dry  her  eye^ 

And  let  herself  be  woo'd  again- 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 

"A  WINTER  FANTASY." 
The  two  first  stanzas  are  imitated  from  The*o- 
phile  Gautier. 

"To  MY  OLD  FRIEND  POSTUMUS." 
The  Well-beloved  1— B.  L.  died  26th  July,  1853. 

"THE  ROSE  AND  THE  RING." 

Mr.  Thackeray  spent  a  portion  of  the  winter  of 
1854  in  Rome,  and  while  there  he  wrote  his  little 
Christmas  story  called  "The  Rose  and  the  Ring." 
He  was  a  great  friend  of  the  distinguished 
American  sculptor,  Mr.  Story,  and  was  a  fre- 
quent visitor  at  his  house.  I  have  heard  Mr. 
Story  speak  with  emotion  of  the  kindness  of  Mr. 
Thackeray  to  his  little  daughter,  then  recovering 
from  a  severe  illness,  and  he  told  me  that  Mr. 
Thackeray  used  to  come  nearly  every  day  to  read 

H 


98  NOTES. 

to  Miss   Story,    often   bringing  portions    of  his 
manuscript  with  him. 

Five  or  six  years  afterwards 'Miss  Story  showed 
me  a  very  pretty  copy  of  "The  Rose  and  the 
Ring,"  which  Mr.  Thackeray  had  sent  her,  with 
a  facetious  sketch  of  himself  in  the  act  of  present- 
ing her  with  the  work. 

"NUPTIAL  VERSES." 

These  lines  were  published  in  1863  in  "A  Wei- 
come,"  dedicated  to  the  Princess  of  Wales. 

"  MANY  YEARS  AFTER." 
These  lines  are  intended  as  a  sequel  to  my 
verses  in  "London  Lyrics,"  entitled  "The  Pilgrims 
of  Pall  Mall." 

"Du  RYS  DE  MADAME  D'ALLEBRET." 
After  Clement  Marot 

"ST.  GEORGE'S,  HANOVER  SQUARE." 
"  Dans  le  bonheur  de  nos  meilleurs  amis  nous 
trouvons  souvent  quelque  chose  qui  ne  nous  plait 
pas  entierement" 


UNIFORM  IN  STYLE  AND  PRICE,  III 
WHITE,  STOKES,  &  ALLEN'S  SERIES  OP 
DAINTILY  BOUND  POETICAL  WORKS,  ARE! 

GEORGE   ELIOT'S  POEMS, 
THE   SPANISH   GYPSY, 
CHARLOTTE  BRONTE'S  POEMS, 
THOMAS  GRAY'S   POEMS, 
W.  M.  THACKERAY'S  POEMS, 
GOETHE'S   FAUST, 
HEINE'S  BOOK  OF  SONGS, 
LONDON  RHYMES,  by  Frederick  Locker. 
LONDON  LYRICS,  by  Frederick  Locker. 

THE   GOLDEN  TREASURY,  by  F.   T. 

Palgrave. 

CHARLES  DICKENS'  POEMS. 
Others  in  preparation. 

Each  one  volume,  i6mot  on  fine  laid  paper t 
wide  margins* 

Limp  parchment-paper,   .        .  $1.00 

Cloth,  new  colors,  novel  design  in  gold,    i.oo 
Half  calf,  new  colors,       .        .        .        2.50 

Limp  calf,  in  box 3>5o 

Tree-calf,  new  colors,      .        .        .        4.5O 


m 

llNldiL 


